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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24687841">Cross Purposes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_dram/pseuds/just_a_dram'>just_a_dram</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidental Baby Acquisition, F/M, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:01:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,390</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24687841</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_dram/pseuds/just_a_dram</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a misunderstanding between them--and a babe--that's keeping them apart.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jon Snow/Sansa Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>512</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Cross Purposes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic was spun out across several tumblr ask fills years ago. I posted bits of it in my drabble collection, but never posted the final chapter on AO3. They are now all collected here and edited afresh.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Someone didn’t want her," Jon says, peering over the bundle Sansa holds pressed to her chest.</p><p>He knows it wasn’t like this with him—unwanted and abandoned to the elements—but the bastard boy in him feels as angry looking at the little wrinkled face as Sansa looks happy.</p><p>She gently traces the curve of the babe’s cheek. Jon would like to touch the babe as well, but he keeps his hands at his side.</p><p>They make an odd tableau with the babe here between them—Lady Stark and Prince Targaryen, the lady’s former brother and the heir to the Iron Throne, who finds it impossible to heed his aunt’s calls to come south. Sansa doesn’t sense the oddness, because to her he is just her kindly brother come to stay and help with the rebuilding of Winterfell. Somehow he fears if he touches the babe, it will become clear to Sansa what keeps him here, what he wants, and how this little babe reminds him of it, and she will urge him to leave with more vehemence than the Mother of Dragons ever has called for him.</p><p>"It isn’t always about wanting," Sansa suggests. "Whoever it was might not have been able to care for her. Some village girl perhaps."</p><p>"I expect you’re right."</p><p>There’s no one for miles outside the winter town beyond Winterfell’s walls, everyone having drawn close after winter ended and began yet again in less than one name day’s passing.</p><p>"Whoever she is, she did her best. She knew we would find her," Sansa says, more easily forgiving than Jon can find it in himself to be.</p><p>It isn't that Sansa is wrong. There must have been some intention in leaving the babe where the mother did—at the gates of Winterfell.</p><p>The men discovered the babe in a basket nearly blue with the cold. The fire and Sansa’s arms have warmed its breast, but it will need more than warmth soon enough. The little one is already starting to stir in Sansa’s arms, turning into the breast of the maiden Lady of Winterfell, searching for sustenance.</p><p>"She’ll need a wet nurse. Elayna perhaps."</p><p>The slip of a serving girl not yet fifteen has a babe young enough that the child is still at the breast. Jon knows of it, because he has special interest in the girl and her fatherless little boy.</p><p>She grew thick with child not long after Jon arrived back in the North, and when she would not give up the father’s name, Jon felt duty bound to step in. He is the one who suggested to Sansa that Elayna work lighter kitchen duty in the second half of her pregnancy. He saw to it that the maester attended her, rather than one of the women in winter town. And when the babe was brought into the world, he made a practice of visiting the dark haired babe to ensure that his needs were being met. The child doesn’t have a father, but it doesn’t seem to have affected the boy as of yet: he’s hale and hearty and always has a gummy smile for Jon. No doubt due to Elayna’s attentive care.</p><p>The smile Sansa has worn since Jon came to her solar to see the foundling babe for himself disappears in a purse of her rosy lips. “If you like.”</p><p>"She’s a good mother," Jon adds, tilting his head to watch the yawn that stretches the babe’s mouth wide.</p><p>"I’m sure she is. You would know better than I."</p><p>Sansa turns and he can no longer see her face or the babe’s.</p><p>"I didn’t mean to overstep." Sansa is the mistress of Winterfell and he should not have presumed to act in concert with her, as if he is the lord to her lady. This is the awkwardness he felt, unfurling in his blood, making him speak out of turn. It is the babe. The sweet smell of it and the soft voice Sansa speaks in with her head bent over the little girl. It is the babe and the three of them alone here together like he has sometimes let himself dream of in the dark of his room. "It’s your choice of course."</p><p>When he first came to Winterfell, Sansa looked at him as if he had come to steal everything away from her. As an outsider, an interloper with a crown on his head that gave him the power to take whatever he wanted. Her voice is as frosty now as it ever was then, when she says, “How good of you to remember.” And the illusion of their family rebuilt within these walls is dashed as quickly as it took root in his heart.</p><p>The babe gives a thin little cry.</p><p>Sansa rocks it and softly shushes her, but the cry gains in strength until she says, “You’ll know where to find her. Won’t you?”</p><p>He hates to have to ask. "Elayna?"</p><p>Sansa gives no response, and Jon turns towards the door. “I’ll have her sent to you, my lady.”</p>
<hr/><p>The fresh rushes crunch under Jon’s feet, as he rocks back and forth, holding the babe Sansa named Breana to his shoulder, where her little mouth hangs open in milky content. It must be the sound under foot that obscures Sansa’s approach. For though she is quiet enough, normally he would have roused at the sound of the heavy nursery door.</p><p>"You dance better than I remember, Jon."</p><p>Jon turns to see her outlined by the dim light of the late afternoon sun, hair catching the glow like a winter aurora. He is happy to see her, even happier to hear the soft way she says his name, all formality temporarily set aside, but she has not come to see him. It is the babe she’s come for. He twists further to let her see the babe’s face pressed against him.</p><p>"It only looks it, because my partner as of yet can not be trod upon while dancing."</p><p>Closing the distance between them, Sansa smooths the babe’s fair whorl of hair with one delicate caress of her finger. She is endlessly tracing that curl, and Jon has fallen asleep more than once, watching her do it before the hearth in her room. His fingers flex against the babe, itching to cover her hand with his own.</p><p>"Still as awkward, then?" she asks.</p><p>"Still."</p><p>"Well, I would not mind you as my heavy footed partner."</p><p>"The next time we shall dance together then," he promises, though when that will be he does not know. There is no dancing at Winterfell. Sansa does not care for singers as she once did and there has been little cause for merriment.</p><p>Those impediments might be removed, but another raven came from the capital filled with threats rather than entreaties. His time here is coming to an end. At least for the present, until he can convince his aunt there is need of him in the North once more.</p><p>"I would collect on that promise and ask for a dance now, but it seems a shame to separate you from your beautiful partner."</p><p>Breana is a beautiful babe. At least they all find her to be so, which is why Jon knows what Sansa truly wants is not a dance. With a shrug, he moves to hand Breana into Sansa’s empty arms. The babe is fast enough asleep that she is unaware of the jostling she receives or Jon’s softly voiced, “Beautiful,” as he watches Sansa’s face settle into such lovely serenity, as she bends to kiss the babe’s brow.</p><p>She ought to be a mother. She wants that above all things, he knows, and he wants to be the one to give her a household full of joyful children. Knowing he cannot reawakens the ache in his chest that he has failed to bury with the passing weeks.</p><p>"She ate well," he says, turning to the safety of particulars. "Should sleep a while."</p><p>He will miss knowing the minutia of the babe’s day—how she ate, slept, and whether her linens were soiled twice before being put down. He wonders whether Sansa will consider it worthwhile to preserve the day to day dealings of an infant that is not his own in the content of her letters, when he is gone. If she writes at all.</p><p>Those are things to mourn in the future, however. At least for now Sansa takes great interest in sharing these details with him, or Jon assumed she did until she frowns at his report.</p><p>"You spoke with Elayna then?"</p><p>"Yes." She gave him an account of Breana’s progress, when he came to the nursery some time earlier. "Before she went back to the kitchens."</p><p>Sansa readjusts the blanket about the babe’s shoulders. “It’s good of you to stay with Breana even when Elayna is called away.”</p><p>There would be no reason to leave as soon as the wet-nurse did, for he came to see the babe, the same as Sansa. They both hurry to the nursery whenever they can. It pricks him that Sansa doesn’t see he cares for Breana as she does. It is a misunderstanding he can’t let go without correction.</p><p>"I came to see Breana."</p><p>Looking up, the smile Sansa gives him is not a happy one. He’s seen it before, and it only makes him wish for the Sansa of old, the sister he rarely has reason to regret now that she is something else to him.</p><p>"You are very attentive. A good…" She does not finish, presumably unable to settle on what to call him. The confusion is one they share. He is not the babe’s father. She is not the mother. They are not parents, and what this babe shall be here in the castle is not yet determined.</p><p>By the time he returns, he imagines all will be sorted and he will no longer be a complicating factor. Moreover, the child will not remember him.</p><p>"Sansa, a raven came for me today."</p><p>"I know it." Secrets are not well kept in Winterfell, and after all the intrigue she endured, Jon thinks the lady prefers it that way. "Will you be going to King’s Landing alone?"</p><p>Jon never raised the specter of his leaving, though this is not the first of his aunt’s commands. Preserving the illusion of permanence was more for his benefit than Sansa's, but reading over today’s message, he indulged himself in hoping that she might ask him to stay. What good that would have done, he doesn’t know.</p><p>Her response, however, is nothing but a matter of fact acceptance of his parting, her words cool and her face as untouched as ever.</p><p>"No, I wouldn’t think to take any of your men South if that concerns you."</p><p>The safety of Sansa and Winterfell is paramount.</p><p>"You can if you have need of them, though that isn’t who I meant," she says, leaning over to place Breana in her wooden cradle.</p><p>Sansa would never go South, nothing could induce her, and she is the only one he would ever ask to accompany him.</p><p><em>Who would I take?</em> </p><p>It is on the tip of his tongue, as she gathers up her skirts in one hand and turns toward the door.</p><p>“I have things to attend to, Jon, you must forgive me. I'll fetch the septa, so you might go about your business as well," she continues blithely, as he frowns back at her. "But you <em>will</em> tell me if you mean to take any of my people, won’t you? You are the prince, but I am the lady of this place.”</p>
<hr/><p>Most of Jon’s things have been packed by servants, but there are some small treasures he puts away himself, preferring that his be the only hands that touch them. The embroidered handkerchief Sansa brings to his chamber, while he is tucking away the last of his possessions, immediately becomes one such treasure.</p><p>“Thank you,” he says, turning the square of linen in his hand to better see the direwolves she has worked with delicate stitches and fine silk thread.</p><p>“Was I wrong to make them direwolves?”</p><p>“You know you weren’t,” he says, folding it with what feels like clumsy fingers.</p><p>“In the South, they might prefer you wipe your brow with red scaled dragons.”</p><p>“I believe my aunt is well appraised of my fondness for this place after refusing her summons for several moons,” Jon says, tucking the handkerchief into his doublet, where it will remain close even as the distance grows between them with every step of his mount. “She won’t be shocked to find the vestiges of direwolves about me.”</p><p>“Good,” Sansa says, moving to sit, though she has not been invited.</p><p>He should have invited her. She has never been inside his chamber. It has always been he that came to her. The difference in their relative positions tonight brought about a momentary lapse, which she is good enough to ignore. Perhaps she is accustomed to ignoring his transgressions. They are likely more numerous than he is aware, since his manners have never been as refined as hers.</p><p>There is only one seat now occupied by the stiff backed lady of this place and with nowhere else to sit, his choice is to remain standing or climb atop the bed. A knot forms in his chest when he looks from the tidily made bed to Sansa’s pale face held half in shadow by the dim candlelight of a moonless night.</p><p>“We will miss you here,” she says before he has chance to decide what to do with himself.</p><p>Her face is composed, her tone even. If he didn’t know her better, he would assume she spoke merely out of courtesy, a meaningless expression of unfelt affection to send him on his way. But the more carefully Sansa constructs her words and aspect, the more she conceals.</p><p>Jon does not want to leave. He dreaded the prospect of being forced to leave almost as soon as he arrived. Even when Sansa looked upon him as a threat, an interloper ready to take what was hers, he hated the thought of being turned away from the halls of Winterfell and his former sister.</p><p>If she feels half what he does, while he readies himself to ride the next morning for King’s Landing, there is good reason for her to speak with measured care.</p><p>“And I shall miss you.”</p><p>“Breana will not understand,” she says, giving unnatural emphasis to the babe’s name.</p><p>Sansa folds her hands in her skirts, awaiting his response. The babe is so little that he doubts she will notice he has disappeared from a circumscribed life that is made up of feedings and changings. It is only he who will feel that loss of her presence.</p><p>He could not bring himself to request it previously, but the moment presents itself and he makes himself speak. “I’d be grateful if you wrote to me of her.”</p><p>“Certainly, and I shall bundle her up myself on the morrow, so she might see you off. Hers will be the last red face you see here.”</p><p>“You wrap her tighter than any of the other women manage,” he says with a thin smile. Swaddling the babe is no mean feat, for Breana has become quite strong, and she can be free of her swaddling clothes as quick as the kingdom’s most adept dungeon escapee.</p><p>Sansa glances down at her hands. “Elayna can be counted on to wrap her tight enough. She sleeps well on Elayna’s watch. She is, as you once reminded me, a good mother.” Her mouth hooks up on one side. “Young, but a good mother. I can own that much.”</p><p>Jon hopes Sansa’s continued presence in his chamber means she intends on spending the duration of the evening with him. He would like nothing better. In which case, he ought to find himself a seat or ready himself to perch on the bed without flushing as red as a beet. But as his eyes skim the room for an additional chair he knows he will not spy, he hears a catch in Sansa’s breath that freezes him in place.</p><p>“If I have been unkind or… ungenerous, I beg you forgive me, Jon. I do try to be glad of other’s happiness, but I sometimes fail.”</p><p>Sansa is kindness and generosity itself, so long as she does not feel threatened like she did when he first arrived here. They are sometimes awkward together, and that is to be expected. He has never blamed her for it in those moments. Her apology baffles him, and he shakes his head, ready to tell her his forgiveness on that or any point is unnecessary, when she stands, hands still clasped before her and eyes fixed not on his but somewhere in the middle of his leather doublet.</p><p>“I’m afraid I gave the impression of not wanting you to speed away any of my people, but if you would like to take Elayna and her babe with you, I can arrange for another wet-nurse for Breana. A wheelhouse could be fetched for their comfort on the journey. It would not take long. I should have offered from the outset.”</p><p>He is fond of the boy, but he would never dream of uprooting the child and his mother to satisfy his longing for Winterfell. “This is their home, Sansa.”</p><p>She inclines her head, her fingers knotting, so that even in the flickering light he can see them whiten. “Please, don’t leave.”</p><p>It is the plea he wished for, when first he received the command, but even in his imaginings, she did not speak it in such a plaintive tone.</p><p>He takes a step towards her, something inside of him unwinding like an over tightened crank, as he holds out a hand to her. After a moment’s heightened pause, she takes it and holds fast, her short nails pressing into his flesh.</p><p>“As a servant, she might not feel free to ask it of you, but the Lady of Winterfell might make entreaties of a prince, might she not? Even if you may not be free to grant them?”</p><p>“You might ask anything—” he begins but there is more she needs to say, and her words spill forth over his, quick and artificially bright. “I’ll own I ask for my benefit too. I can no longer imagine this place without you, Jon, and I would accept… whatever arrangements you felt appropriate within these walls, so long as you stayed.”</p><p>Half her words make no sense to him, but it doesn’t matter. It is the stuff of his most deluded dreams, and as she foresaw, still he must refuse her.</p><p>“The queen has made threats or else I would never leave.”</p><p>She hums and gives a small nod. Her hand slips free of his, and Jon bites back the urge to seize it back and press it to his chest.</p><p>“I wouldn’t have been able to sleep this night if I did not at least ask it of you.”</p><p>Another nod and she glides towards his door too quick for him to tell her that he will not be sleeping regardless or that he will hurry back as soon as Daenerys seems unlikely to burn him or Sansa or the North for it, her last words for him a wish of sweet dreams.</p>
<hr/><p>Two name days have passed and despite her lengthy and frequent letters, Jon has felt the full weight of the time he spent away from Winterfell and its lady. A weight that is almost forgotten, when he sits at her side again with her people feasting about them.</p><p>“You did all of this in honor of my return?” he asks, tankard in hand, as he looks over the merriment in the hall.</p><p>There has been no real cause for celebration here, even with the successful rebuilding of a good portion of the castle. That his return is marked by the first feast in the rebuilt halls warms him like nothing else could.</p><p>The last feast he attended in Winterfell, he was still an untested boy bound for the Wall. He ran out of this very hall, overcome by tears, since he was set apart from the rest of siblings, singled out as not good enough to share space with a king and queen. Now he sits in a place of honor, welcomed by the woman he loves most in this reordered world.</p><p>Time and distance has not changed how he feels.</p><p>“I wish I could have done more, but we must be careful with our harvest in case this summer is as short as the last.”</p><p>“It won’t be,” he says, putting aside the usual gloominess of the Stark house words to place his hope in happier times ahead. After all, Daenerys has allowed him to come here and she has sent him with tacit approval for a match that would bring him the greatest joy.</p><p>“Gods be good, you'll be right,” Sansa says, setting her wine cup down.</p><p>“And there’s nothing lacking,” he adds. “It is much more than I expected.”</p><p>Jon hoped Sansa would welcome him with a long evening spent in her solar. He expected a wine skin, a game of cyvasse, and pleasant conversation about the everyday workings of the castle he has missed. Nothing like this.</p><p>“That is because we are glad of you, my prince, and mean to show it. But as glad of you as we are, I still intend on reminding you of your promises. I shan’t let you escape them.”</p><p>Jon draws heavily from the fresh, crisp brew, and though at two cups in he still has his wits about him, he fails to recall the promise to which Sansa alludes.</p><p>“An awkward dance,” she supplies, when he sits dumbly, tankard held out before him. “You swore we would dance the next time there was good cause. Tonight is the reason, and you might trod upon my toes as much as you like.”</p><p>Having set his own cup down, Jon grips his knees under the table with unsteady hands, for his heart has begun to hammer as it did when the sight of Winterfell made itself plain over the horizon and he pictured the red headed lady inside, awaiting his arrival with as much anticipation as she expressed in her last letter. Then he had time to gain control over his emotions, but now Sansa is before him with her brows arched in suspense of his response. He fears his voice will waiver should he speak or he shall say more than he intends on this first night, when they should be relearning each other.</p><p>“Unless you would prefer your first dance to be with your old partner, Breana. I must warn you, now that she walks, she too has toes you might trample.”</p><p>All he manages is a gruff ‘no’ by way of response, which could easily be mistaken for a refusal to dance with her if he did not also brusquely push back his chair and extend his hand to her. Indeed, momentary confusion flickers in her eyes, as she gives him her hand and stands, but it disappears as he leads her around the tables and towards the open space before the players.</p><p>“Have your skills improved in King’s Landing?” Sansa asks, as he squares one arm before her, scarred palm held out awaiting the press of hers to it.</p><p>“Not at all.”</p><p>The minstrels take heed of their pose and the music comes to life to match the dance he means to lead her in. A simple dance. A Northern dance. One that will hopefully not be such a disaster that she vows to never repeat it, for he hopes to spend years leading her in one dance or another.</p><p>“I don’t entirely believe you,” she says, leaning in towards him as they turn, so that her words can reach his ears over the bright pipe of the music. “I imagine the queen availed herself of your presence as an appropriate partner with great regularity. It’s nothing to dance with a lady after taking the floor with a queen.”</p><p>But she couldn't be more wrong: it’s everything.</p>
<hr/><p>A fortnight passes before Jon gathers the courage to make his proposal. A fortnight spent enjoying Sansa’s company as best he can, while cataloging every gesture and expression she bestowed upon him, seeking insight into the state of her mind.</p><p>Would she welcome such an offer? Or would the prospect horrify her? He could not fault her for it, should that be the case. He recoiled the first time he looked from her bright eyes to her lips and wanted to taste them.</p><p>The wanting is a permanent fixture of his being now, nothing he can fight or deny. He tried while he was gone. Failing, he sought permission instead. First from the queen and now he must seek it from the lady herself.</p><p>After a fortnight of observation, he feels somewhat certain she will not turn him out at the suggestion they wed. He would not venture to ask if she did not seem so very happy to have him here. It gave him hope.</p><p>Jon does not imagine her to be inflamed with passion for a man she called brother. He builds his hopes on more practical foundations. Sansa sometimes looks sideways at him, taking full measure of him and his intentions, and yet, he knows he is wanted here. She trusts him more than other men, however hard it is for her to trust anyone. If she desires an heir, a family, a lord husband to share the burdens of life, they might begin on that footing and work towards something more if she so desires.</p><p>Offers of marriage have found their way to her door before. All have been rejected. Their pace has slowed, as those with any standing to make such an offer dwindle in number. Others might take these rejections to mean she has no interest in becoming a wife and mother. They assumes she is hardened and changed, despite her being as soft-spoken and kind as before.</p><p>Jon has observed how she smiles at children and watches happy couples in the hall. She is not so different from the girl he knew.</p><p>If he is wrong and she wants him gone, he won’t have far to go, already being outside the gates, walking a step behind her in dew tipped morning grass that stains the hem of her blue gown dark. He considered asking in her chambers, where they often pass the evenings, but the implied intimacy of her rooms might have made a refusal more difficult for her.</p><p>Jon vowed long ago that no one would ever compel her to do anything again, so long as he drew breath, and he would rather undergo a second death than break that vow.</p><p>Let the offer be made under open skies, not far from the springs, where they splashed in the innocence of youth.</p><p>She turns to say something about the harvest or rents or some detail of management, and he stops her. His gloved hand brushes hers, linking their fingers and squeezing. Her brows lift and she speaks his name as a gentle question.</p><p>He looks down at their clasped hands and turns his wrist, bringing her palm atop his. “Would you take me as your husband?”</p><p>Her lips part and her chest rises beneath the woolen cloak draped over her shoulders. The moment stretches out between them, as long a silence as Jon has ever felt.</p><p>“Your wife?”</p><p>“Aye.”</p><p>In the solitude of his room, Jon planned it differently, but plain words come more naturally, however jarring they might be. He will beg pardon for the manner of asking later. All he manages now is a flat smile he knows must look like a grimace.</p><p>Hers makes up for his, when it finally draws the corners of her mouth up and makes his heart skip hard in his chest. “Then yes.”</p><p>She is so beautiful when she is happy. It is all he has wanted for some time—to make her happy. No, in truth he wants to kiss her too. Desperately, in fact.</p><p>But her smile dims and her gaze drifts from his, when he pulls her in and dips his head. It is enough to make him hesitate before she asks it of him: “Wait.”</p><p>“Of course,” he says with a thick swallow. It is too much too soon. He can wait for how ever long. For it is more than he ever hoped, and he has learned patience.</p><p>He means to tell her that and more. What he wants for them, how he shall always be at her side, what a lovely, strong woman she is, but as he opens his mouth to confess it all, she cuts him off.</p><p>“Daenerys seeks an alliance with the North?”</p><p>His thoughts are scattered, his nerves strung tight, but he gathers his wits to answer her diplomatic concern. “She is not against it. She gave her permission.”</p><p>His aunt would have preferred a connection with another house, but Jon made his case and she acquiesced.</p><p>She grips his hand with a fierceness he has not felt from her since those first desperate days, when survival was uncertain and she leaned on him, often in spite of herself. “You proposed it?”</p><p>Jon frowns, feeling some misunderstanding brewing between them. It is sometimes like this with them: easy and then not. “Aye.”</p><p>She pulls her hand free of his and a reserved sadness with which he is too familiar replaces the flicker of joy he saw reflected in her eyes a moment earlier. “If you want this so as to be near her, own it. For my sake.”</p><p>“Sansa.” He traces the sleeve of her dress, where the cloak falls away, with the curve of his finger. He prepared himself for rejection, but Sansa’s shifting reaction makes no sense. “I don’t understand.”</p><p>“Elayna. You could take her with you if she is what you truly want. Rather than marry me.”</p><p>“The kitchen girl? Why would I?” Even as he asks it, the pieces fall into place. All Sansa’s prior coolness and baffling behavior suddenly takes a different shape. “You thought there was something between us? Breanna’s nursemaid and I?”</p><p>Her eyes dance over him. “There is not?”</p><p>“And the boy?” he asks, gesturing back at Winterfell. She imagined him fathering a bastard under their father’s roof. The one thing he vowed from the time he was a child himself never to do. “He was mine in this picture of yours?”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>He can feel the color rising in his cheeks. “Sansa that is madness.”</p><p>“Gods. Don’t take offense,” she says, covering her mouth with a shaking hand. “You were so attentive and kind. I thought… ”</p><p>“I saw something of myself in him.”</p><p>“So did I. I mean to say, I saw a resemblance between you two. I imagined one.”</p><p>“An unwanted bastard, Sansa. That’s what I saw.”</p><p>Sansa closes her eyes with a shake of her head. “I have been trying so hard not to be filled with jealousy over it all. Sometimes I almost managed, but mostly I was consumed by it. Forgive me. Will you? I should have asked.”</p><p>Jon would have expected her disapproval under the circumstances, but jealousy is something else. The affront he might otherwise feel is eclipsed by sharp curiosity that narrows his eyes.</p><p>“Jealousy?”</p><p>“I thought there might be a future for us, and then there was the child.” She exhales with a twitching smile that turns to a small frown.</p><p>They shall have to work on understanding each other, but it seems as if her feelings for him are already more than he was wager on.</p><p>Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he tugs her in to his chest. “I should have told you what I felt before I ever left for King’s Landing,” he says, speaking into her coppery hair. “I was too cowardly and ashamed. Say yes again and we will forget the rest. Start on solid footing.”</p><p>She tips her face up to his. “Ask again.”</p><p>“Marry me.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p>
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